


Kitten Claws

by pixieface



Category: Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-17
Updated: 2009-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-05 03:54:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixieface/pseuds/pixieface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amber grew up in a lion's den. Kitten claws are unlikely to worry her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kitten Claws

Mag's in her dressing room when Amber strides in, confident in platform heels and violently green hair, today. Her makeup's subtle, as if to make up for the attention-catching hue, but Mag knows better. Amber never apologizes for anything, verbally or otherwise; it's not the way she was raised, not in her nature. Not since long before she was little Carmela Largo looking up at Mag and her voice with those big liquid eyes - she's changed their color so often since then Mag's forgotten what they were, then. Doesn't matter in the long run, she supposes, what color the eyes that watched her so trustingly then were, when Mag gave her those first singing lessons to try and slip her out from under Rotti's despicable thumb. They're different eyes, now, and not just in the GeneCo way. The person behind them's long gone, and Mag's not quite sure she knows the monster that lives there now.

That monster is angry, Mag knows. She can see it in her walk, the way her shoulders are thrust back and the angle at which she holds her head. There's faint little trembles running through her, too, Zydrate trembles, Mag knows from experience. These are the worst times, the Zydrate times. As unpredictable as Amber is the rest of the time, with Zydrate time she gets just a little worse.

"You bitch," Amber speaks, breathes, wheezes, "you fucking bitch. You think you've got it, don't you? You charity-case cuntfucker. The only reason anyone ever listens to you is because my father makes them, and he makes them because he feels sorry for you. He feels sorry for you and your free advertising. How do you feel about that, bitch? You've probably caused more repossessions than any one Repo Man my daddy employs."

Mag feels a stab at that, as Amber stalks closer. She knows, doesn't she just know, and whatever power's up there that GeneCo doesn't control has surely damned her to a hell more inventive than Rotti Largo ever dreamt of creating for it. And that might be why she doesn't pull back, doesn't resist, just stays limp as Amber jerks her face forward and violently smashes their lips together. Her lips part passively when Amber bites at them; she can feel the blood stinging forth from the cuts, can taste it in her mouth when Amber shoves her tongue forward. She doesn't respond and doesn't relax, either, not even when Amber pulls back and smiles at her, showing the pink on her teeth and the way her lipstick has smeared.

"Oh, I see how it is," Amber spits at her, that expression still on her face, her hand still on Mag's jaw, her fingertips still leaving bruises beneath the stage makeup. "You're punishing yourself. You think I'm a punishment, do you?" She scowls abruptly, just as abruptly smooths the expression out again. "Well, if I'm gonna be a punishment, I'm gonna be a damn good one," she remarks. "And you better step it up, you carpetmuncher. I can get rid of you and your sideshow eyes, if I want to. And you know it." She seizes one of Mag's hands with her free one, places it over the thin white silk stretched taut over her breasts. She's not wearing a bra; Mag knew it when she came in, could see the darker circles of her nipples beneath the cloth if she cared to look, but it's different now in some way that Mag can't quite grasp. Or maybe it's that she is grasping it, flesh peaking beneath her touch and her ridiculous stage-nails. Claws, more like it, but Amber grew up in a lion's den, a snake-pit. Kitten claws are unlikely to worry her.

Amber kisses her again, and mechanically, Mag kisses back, lets Amber dominate, runs her hands down Amber's sides. Her nails catch on Amber's shirt as she goes, and it rips; the material is fragile, and Mag breaks the skin beneath. Amber gasps into her mouth, maneuvers them both so that Mag's up against the wall and they each have a thigh pressed to the other's groin. Amber breaks the kiss, tilts her head back and her pelvis forward, grasps Mag's hands and grinds down on her, shoving the nails deeper into her skin. She kisses Mag again, bites her lips, her tongue, until Mag is sure she'll bleed out from the thousand tiny cuts Amber's teeth have left. The stutters of Amber's hips grow deeper, more desperate; she grasps Mag's hand, places the nails under her skirt when she can bear to tear herself away. Unwillingly, Mag finds herself gasping. She manipulates her fingers lightly; the length of the nails means a little bit goes a long way, and Mag can tell when she's found precisely the right rhythm, because Amber leans her head back; Mag can't see properly, but she thinks the expression Amber wears might be something near peace.

After, Amber leaves. Mag sits on her bench, aching, and stares at the mess that's been made of her stage makeup.


End file.
